


Be Me

by KateyLily



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Deviant CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hank pulls a gun on him, Hopeful Ending, Impersonation, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sixty has PTSD, not a good combination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 03:57:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20753963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateyLily/pseuds/KateyLily
Summary: “Sixty,” Connor states firmly, and Sixty stops talking. “...I want you to pretend to be me.”“Wh-what?! What are you saying? I can’t do that! Connor, please, just transfer—““Please... I don’t want Hank to have to go through the pain of losing another son,” he admits sadly, and Sixty freezes.(Or: Connor is dying, and he begs Sixty to pretend to be him so Hank won’t have to go through the grief of losing another son. He gives him all his memories, leaving Sixty with a new mission: Impersonate Connor.)





	Be Me

Hank was onto him.

At least, Sixty thought he was. It would explain the distrustful and suspicious glances he kept shooting his way, and although he hadn’t said anything, it was obvious he knew something was up.

It started with a minor slip-up. Something simple and entirely inconsequential, easily overlooked by anyone other than a detective who also happened to be a close friend and father figure to the person he was attempting to impersonate.

He had neglected to pet Sumo.

Connor had given him all of his memories, but that didn’t mean he could suddenly adopt all his behavior patterns and tics. He had analyzed them all, of course, and tried his best, but sometimes he just... slipped up. Forgot something. Failed.

He wasn’t supposed to fail. But being deviant meant that, sometimes, he wasn’t perfect. Sometimes his emotions got in the way.

It surprised him how hard it was to pretend to be Connor, how different they were despite looking identical. They had each developed their own personalities after deviating, and with each day that passed Sixty found it harder and harder to keep up the ruse.

Hank had been suspicious for a while now, ever since that incident, but Sixty quickly made a lame excuse and endeavored to try harder. He had to. For Connor.

* * *

It was just another ordinary day of work at the DPD. Sixty replacing Connor in his personal life also meant he had to replace him at his job, although he didn’t mind. He found that he enjoyed detective work as much as Connor did, which was a huge relief.

He was looking through a case file like Connor normally did, interfacing with the terminal, while Hank was snacking on a donut. As he exited the interface, he saw Hank staring at him out of the corner of his vision. Sixty turned to look at him, confused at the look Hank was giving him.

“Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee, Hank?” he asked pleasantly, assuming the stare was because Connor sometimes brought Hank some coffee and he wanted one. Hank’s eyes widened, and he set the donut down.

Sixty got up to make the coffee, but as soon as he neared Hank’s desk, Hank shot up out of his chair, leaped to land in front of him, and violently shoved him.

Before he knew what was happening, he was on the floor. He blinked in surprise, too shocked to move. The precinct ground to a halt as everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at them.

“Where’s Connor?” Hank demanded, towering over him. He wasn’t being loud, per se, but with everyone having paused what they were doing to watch, it rang out in the silence. Even Fowler had poked his head out of his office, likely to interfere, although he stopped short when he heard the question.

“WHERE IS HE?!” Hank yelled. Sixty flinched, recoiling. He tried to speak, but it was as if his voice modulator had stopped working. He couldn’t force any words out; it felt like there was a lump in his throat he couldn’t talk around. Distantly he registered the feeling of tears burning in his eyes, but he forced them not to fall. How did he find out? What did he do wrong?

In one swift motion, Hank drew his gun and had it pointed it at his head. Sixty tensed, breath quickening and LED blaring red in distress as unwanted flashbacks assaulted him. Hank was still pointing a gun at him, only he was in CyberLife Tower, not the DPD. There were _questions being asked, Connor was saying something about Cole, suddenly Hank turned to him and there was a sudden bang when everything went **dark**_—

No. He couldn’t lose himself in the memories. He had to pull through, or Hank would definitely shoot him.

...That thought didn’t comfort him as he’d hoped. Regardless, he inhaled a deep, shaky breath as he answered. The jig was up.

“Connor’s dead.”

You could hear a pin drop. If it wasn’t totally silent before, it certainly was now, and nobody seemed willing to break it. Sixty continued to take deep breaths as he calmed himself and blinked the unshed tears away, stress levels thankfully dropping as he focused on anything but the gun currently pointed at his head.

Hank stared at him. It felt like his gaze was piercing Sixty’s very soul, seeing something deeper than what was on the surface level. He imagined this must be what it felt like to be analyzed by an android.

“What.” It wasn’t really a question so much as a statement. Hank’s tone was flat, but there was an undercurrent of something dangerous. Belatedly, Sixty realized that maybe putting it that bluntly was not a very good idea.

“He’s dead,” Sixty repeated quietly, internally wincing at the slight tremble in his voice. He wished Hank would put the gun away. “I’m sorry.”

Despite his voice being a near whisper, everyone heard him clearly over the quiet. The onlookers seemed too stunned to react, and Sixty wondered if this was how he was going to die. Again. He could have laughed at that if he wasn’t so terrified, the thought of him dying the same way twice—and to the same person, no less—somehow morbidly funny to him.

Forcing himself to remain in the present, he pushed away the surfacing memories and refocused on Hank.

“Who are you?” Hank pressed, inching the gun forward ever so slightly. Sixty could feel his stress levels skyrocket as his systems zeroed in on it, warning signs and preconstructions clouding his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut to block them out, forcing the programs closed.

“I’m the Connor you met at CyberLife Tower.” There, a simple statement of fact. Those he could handle much easier than emotions. Just cold, impassive facts. He had gotten used to repressing and faking his emotions over time, and learned that if he ignored it, he could pretend that thinking about how Connor was dead didn’t leave him feeling achingly empty. Was it healthy? Probably not. Did he do it anyway because it was easier than dealing with the truth? Yes.

Hank inhaled sharply, eyes widening in horror and surprise before anger and hatred took over. His face darkened and he pressed the gun directly against his forehead, in the same place he had been shot all those months ago. Sixty’s stress levels teetered dangerously between ninety-nine and one hundred percent, but he forced himself to remain calm before he self-destructed.

“So, what, you came back to finish the job? Murdered him and took his place?!” Hank fumed, but before Sixty could object he continued. “Dying once just wasn’t enough for you, huh?” He said it almost mockingly, voice dropping with sarcasm.

“N-no, I didn’t kill him, I promise! I would n-never—“ his voice cracked and he registered the feeling of tears falling down his face. Unable to hold them back any longer, he stopped trying, and instead focused on trying to lower his stress levels.

“Hank, that’s enough!” Fowler’s booming voice filled the bullpen. It appeared to snap Hank out of whatever hate-filled trance he had been in, and he finally seemed to register the fact that he was holding a crying android at gunpoint and, in fact, had an audience.

“Both of you, come with me. Everyone else, back to work!” he yelled, motioning towards Hank and Sixty. Hank hesitated, but reluctantly removed the gun, choosing instead to glare at Sixty hatefully.

As soon as the gun was gone, his stress levels plummeted, and he heaved a huge sigh of relief. He shakily got to his feet, wiped at his eyes, and followed Hank and Captain Fowler.

Fowler led them to the interrogation room, ushering them inside and closing the door behind them. Hank sat down on one side while Sixty sat down on the side with the handcuffs, although he wasn’t locked in them.

Fowler came over to stand between the two of them, on Hank’s left and Sixty’s right presumably so he could keep an eye on his red LED. He glanced between the two of them, noting Sixty’s rigid posture and Hank’s angry one. He sighed.

“Hank, what happened out there?” Fowler asked, genuinely concerned. In this moment he wasn’t Captain Fowler, but Jeffrey, Hank’s old friend.

Hank seemed to have an internal battle with himself as he contemplated his response. Eventually, he looked up, and explained.

* * *

Something was up with Connor. Hank couldn’t seem to put his finger on it, but the android just seemed... _off_, somehow.

It started with the small things. Forgetting to pet Sumo once or twice when before he was all over him. Hesitating before responding to something that should have come as second nature to him by now. Even accidentally calling Hank “Lieutenant” one too many times, even though Connor was long past that stage.

The point was, something was wrong, and Hank was going to find out what.

There was a small voice in the back of his head that needled him, told him that it was the worst case scenario, even though he was sure it wasn’t true.

That Connor had been replaced by an identical model.

Now that was just ridiculous. He knew that, and yet still, his gut was telling him something was very wrong and he wasn’t a police lieutenant for no reason.

So he decided to conduct a little experiment. That morning when they arrived at the DPD, he took a slight detour to the break room and snagged a donut. When he returned to his desk, Connor was already working, staring at some case file. Hank sat down and waited a few seconds for Connor to finish looking it over before he started munching on the donut.

It was nothing. Hank was just being paranoid. The little brat would tilt his head innocently and inform Hank of just how unhealthy the donut was, before politely suggesting that he not eat it. He knew Connor, and he knew the kid always did that when Hank was about to eat something unhealthy.

But he didn’t.

Now, Hank liked to think he was a rational person. Surely this was all just him being ridiculously paranoid over nothing, right? But when Connor asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee and didn’t so much as glance at the half-eaten donut in his hand, Hank just _knew_ something was wrong.

He thought back to all the little things that could have easily been dismissed on their own, but when he put them together, he found himself reaching a really unsettling and terrifying conclusion.

That the little voice in the back of his head had been right.

He set down the donut calmly, although on the inside he was anything but. Connor got up, probably to make the coffee, but as soon as he passed in front of Hank’s desk Hank suddenly jumped up. His LED flashed yellow in surprise, and Hank was _not_ going to waste the advantage of catching him off guard. Before the imposter could so much as blink, Hank was pushing him, and he crashed to the floor.

Distantly he was aware of the precinct going dead silent around him, but he couldn’t care less.

“Where’s Connor?” he demanded. No point in beating around the bush. He noticed how the fake tensed, but he didn’t respond. He was caught.

“WHERE IS HE?!” he yelled. The imposter flinched. Hank couldn’t be patient anymore; he pulled out his gun. The imposter’s breath quickened in panic. Several tense seconds passed before he took a deep breath and spoke two words that ripped Hank’s heart out.

“Connor’s dead.”

Hank stared at him blankly. The words registered in his brain, but it was as if it wasn’t actually him who had heard them.

“What.” The word sounded mostly flat, but internally his emotions were at war with each other. The repeated line of _Connor’s dead_ echoed in his brain, but he quickly stomped down that train of thought. It couldn’t be true. He was lying, he had to be!

“He’s dead,” The fake whispered. “I’m sorry.” Hank saw red, but with an amazing amount of self-restraint managed to force himself not to pull the trigger.

“Who are you?” He continued the impromptu interrogation, extending the gun a little further hoping to pressure him. The fake squeezed his eyes shut, but Hank didn’t let himself feel guilty about that.

“I’m the Connor you met at CyberLife Tower,” he confessed. Hank could detect a slight tremor in his voice that might have been fear, but he didn’t care.

He inhaled sharply. His eyes widened and he felt a whirlwind of emotions engulf him, but overshadowing it all was his anger. _He killed Connor. He killed Connor and stole his identity._ He jammed the gun directly against the liar’s forehead, in the same place he had shot him all those months ago.

“So, what, you came back to finish the job? Murdered him and took his place?!” Hank spat venomously. The android looked terrified, but still opened his mouth. Before he could interrupt, however, Hank continued his rant. “Dying once just wasn’t enough for you, huh?” He mocked sarcastically, hoping that his words cut deep.

“N-no, I didn’t kill him, I promise! I would n-never—“ his voice cracked and tears started rolling down his cheeks. Hank didn’t care; it was obvious he killed him. What else could have happened? The liar! He was going to make him _pay_ for killing Connor, for killing his _son_—

“Hank, that’s enough!” A familiar voice shouted. Suddenly things seemed to come into focus a little more clearly, and Hank blinked a few times to assess the situation. He was currently pointing a gun at Con—no, not Connor, just a filthy imposter—who was crying. He didn’t know when he had pressed the weapon so close to him; it was as if his body was on autopilot, and he was just an observer. It finally seemed to click that he was essentially going to murder someone in the middle of a police station.

“Both of you, come with me. Everyone else, back to work!” Captain Fowler commanded, motioning towards Hank and the fake. Despite the moment of clarity that allowed him to get his bearings, Hank still didn’t move, unwilling to let the _murderer_ go. Eventually his rational side won out, and he reluctantly put the gun away, but still shot the android a heated glare.

The android trembled as he stood and wiped away the tears, but Hank didn’t allow himself to care. He was a murderer, of course he was, he had to be! He hoped Jeffrey was taking them somewhere secluded so he could kill him.

* * *

“So, yeah, that’s what happened,” Hank finished. Fowler nodded, then turned to Sixty, who had been listening quietly.

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” Fowler said simply, and Sixty tensed before giving a shaky nod. He cleared his throat, an unnecessary human gesture, but one that brought him some comfort nonetheless.

“I met Connor again a few months after the revolution. I was basically half dead, having just pieced myself together and crawled out of a junkyard, barely functioning. I don’t know why he was nearby, but he was, and he seemed just as shocked to see me as I was to see him,” Sixty began. Now that he had started, he couldn’t seem to stop, and his thoughts flowed out of him.

“Then... he hugged me.” Sixty’s face twisted in confusion. “I don’t know why he did. He told me that he was really happy to see me, and he was glad I was okay.” His lips quirked upward into a small smile. “I was surprised, to say the least, and a little wary if I’m being honest. But he helped patch me up more thoroughly, and I apologized for attacking him during the revolution. He apologized as well for how things ended, and from there, we just kept meeting at the same spot. I had nothing better to do, and he was good company.”

He paused and his face fell as he recounted the fateful night. “One night we were ambushed by a group of violent anti-android protestors. Normally we’d be able to easily defend ourselves against humans, especially since there were two of us, but there were so many that they overwhelmed us. Eventually they left, but Connor was badly injured...” his voice trembled and his LED turned red; he knew what happened next, he had buried this moment and the emotions that came with it deep in his memory banks, and dredging it up was painful. Numbly he continued, and despite his best efforts his grief seeped into his voice.

“H-he was dying, and I begged him to transfer bodies with me so he could live, but he refused. I tried to do it anyway, but he... he blocked me.” More tears slid down his face, but he barely seemed to notice them. He was in his own world, lost in the memory and the emotions associated with it. “Instead, he... asked me to pretend to be him. So you wouldn’t have to go through the pain of losing another son. Th-that’s what he said.” Sixty continued, looking up at Hank’s blank face for those last few lines.

“I said no, of course, but h-he insisted... I was still holding his arm from trying to transfer bodies, and before I could stop him, he gave me all his memories before he sh-shut down.” The tears continued to fall as the reality of what he had just said sunk in, but he forced himself to finish. “I eventually decided to do it. Who was I to deny his last request?”

Hank had been silent throughout the explanation. He remembered that night, when Connor had returned home badly injured and sobbing. Hank had pulled him into a hug, letting him just cry it out, before helping patch him up and gently asking what was wrong. He had answered that he was attacked by protestors, and had left it at that. Now that Hank thought about it, that was the start of when Connor began to act suspicious.

But there was no way that was true. He had to be lying. Connor would never do that.

“You’re lying.” His voice held no emotion, and was as dead as Hank felt at that moment.

“I’m not, I promise,” he said, voice still shaky and raw from crying. “I-I can prove it... I’ll upload my memory of the night on a tablet or s-something.”

Fowler seemed satisfied with that response, and called someone to bring them a tablet. There was no way he was going to leave both of them alone together, and he didn’t want to send either of them out where they would undoubtably be subjected to whispering and gossip.

Someone brought in the tablet; nobody bothered to check who it was. It was set in front of Sixty, and he peeled back his skin, interfacing with it. The person lingered for a bit longer, but left after being shooed by Fowler.

For a few seconds it was quiet as Sixty uploaded his memory files. His face was twisted in a grimace of pain, LED flashing red. The memories were not pleasant, to say the least.

Eventually he pulled away and pushed the tablet across the table to Hank. He buried his face in his arms and his shoulders shook silently with sobs as he finally acknowledged the truth.

Connor was dead.

Since that night, he had avoided thinking about the topic, burying it deep in his memory, living in denial. He had never really had time to just sit down and actually process it except for the very night when it had happened, which wasn’t nearly enough.

Hank gently picked up the tablet. He pressed play.

_They’re hanging out together, Connor laughing at something Sixty was saying, when suddenly they see them. A group of humans, maybe fifty, holding various makeshift weapons. They advance on them._

_Connor and Sixty exchange a glance. They get up and fight back to back, but are still overpowered._

_Eventually they leave. Sixty’s vision is clouded by various warning signs of minor biocomponent damage, but he couldn’t care less. He scans Connor and his eyes widen in shock. He’s dying. His stress levels rise._

_“Connor!” he yells. Connor’s face scrunches up, and he weakly opens his eyes._

_“Sixty...” he starts, but Sixty cuts him off.  
_

_“Transfer bodies with me! Please!” He begs, vision blurring with tears. Connor smiles weakly and shakes his head._

_“I can’t do that, Sixty,” and his voice is all wrong, it sounds strained and robotic, and Sixty is panicking because he’s _dying_ and what do I _do_?_

_He clamps his hand down on Connor’s arm and tries to force the transfer anyway, but Connor blocks it with everything he has. Sixty is stunned, but continues to plead with him to let him transfer, so Connor can live._

_“Sixty,” Connor states firmly, and Sixty stops talking. “...I want you to pretend to be me.”_

_“Wh-what?! What are you saying? I can’t do that! Connor, please, just transfer—“  
_

_“Please... I don’t want Hank to have to go through the pain of losing another son,” he admits sadly, and Sixty freezes._

_“I can’t, Connor, how could I? Just—“ suddenly the skin on Connor’s arm peels back, and the screen is assaulted with a barrage of memories. They flash by too fast for Hank to recognize any, but he thinks he sees himself in a lot of them._

_“P...le..ease...” Connor says, and then his face freezes over and his LED goes out._

_“Connor?! _CONNOR_!” Sixty screams rawly, sobbing openly and clutching Connor’s body. Through the tears, he sees a new mission objective pop up, one he doesn’t plan on deviating from anytime soon: Impersonate Connor._

The memory ended. Hank was left sitting still in the silence. He was telling the truth. He didn’t kill Connor. Through the haze of his emotions, he remembered handing the tablet to Fowler, a dull look on his face.

“Now, I know he asked you to do it, but you have to understand that impersonation is still a crime—especially since Connor was a detective,” Captain Fowler said. Hank flinched at the use of “was” in reference to Connor. Sixty looked up, tears still in his eyes, and nodded slowly.

“I expected something like this would happen when I inevitably got caught,” he mumbled neutrally. “Which penalty am I getting? The jail time or fine?”

_How about death_, Hank wanted to snap, but he found that he didn’t actually mean it. It wasn’t really Sixty’s fault, even if it was easier to be mad at him, to have someone to blame. Hank kept quiet, though, still somewhat numb.

Fowler frowned. “I’ll let you off with just a fine. Though if you still want to work at the DPD, you’ll have to reapply—as yourself, of course.”

Sixty nodded. “I will. I should get going now. And, Lieutenant...” he trailed off, biting his lip. “I’m so sorry.” With that, he stood up and left the room. Hank was still staring vacantly at the table, frozen like a statue.

“Hank...” Fowler began unsurely. Connor had helped to pull Hank out of the pit he had fallen into in the wake of his son’s death, and now that he was gone as well, Jeffrey was understandably worried for his friend. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through. But I’ll support you through it,” he promised. It was all he could do, really, aside from turning to look the other way when Hank showed up to work late or not at all.

Hank just nodded absently, hearing but not really registering the words.

* * *

Hank left work early after that, obviously, and was actually surprised to see that the house was devoid of all life except for Sumo. His confusion quickly passed, however, when he realized that it made perfect sense for the other RK800 to have left now that his cover was blown.

He locked the door behind him, looked around his house (not home, not anymore), and found a note on the kitchen table. Frowning slightly, he walked closer and picked it up. It was written in perfect CyberLife Sans. Hank scoffed, but decided he might as well read it.

_Dear Lieutenant Anderson,_

_I’m very sorry for what happened. I shouldn’t have impersonated Connor, even if he did ask me to. In addition to that, I’m also sorry for kidnapping you and threatening your life during the revolution. I was just a machine taking orders, though that’s no excuse._

_I’ve left the house. I assume you never want to see me again, although I do want to keep doing detective work, so if you don’t want me to continue working at the central station please let me know somehow and I’ll transfer immediately._

_Thanks for everything,_

_RK800 #313 248 317 - 60_

Hank frowned as he finished reading the note. He would deal with it later. For now, he just needed some time to process what had happened. He quickly showered and climbed into bed, even though it was still only morning. He was exhausted from the earlier emotional roller coaster, and wanted nothing more than to just put the world on pause for a bit.

As he lay there, wide awake, it seemed to finally hit him that Connor was gone. Dead. Just like Cole. Part of the reason he confined himself to his room was so he wouldn’t drink—he knew what he was like. Connor had convinced him to get rid of most (if not all) of the alcohol in the house, but there were always bars, so Hank knew he had to avoid going outside for a while.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, Hank fell into a restless sleep plagued by nightmares.

* * *

Sixty was worried.

After paying the fine for impersonating Connor, he submitted a job application to Captain Fowler. Hank hadn’t told him that he didn’t want him working at the same precinct, but then again, Sixty hadn’t exactly given him a way to contact him. And even if he did, it’s likely Hank would have avoided it at all costs.

An oversight, on his part. He grimaced.

He had Connor’s memories, he knew how Hank responded to grief. Which was precisely why he was worried.

He was currently staying at a tiny apartment near the precinct. As soon as Hank learned the truth, he had gone back to his—no, not his, _Hank’s_—house to leave the note, and then left. He didn’t take any of Connor’s things; they weren’t his. He knew he should check on Hank, but...

He was scared.

And for good reason, too! Hank probably would have hated him already just knowing his identity and that he was still alive, but even more so now that he had impersonated Connor. If Hank wasn’t thinking clearly from his anger or grief, it was very likely he would pull a gun on Sixty. Again.

But... then again, this _was_ sort of his fault.

He knew it wasn’t, logically, that there was nothing he could have done to save Connor, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty. What if he had taken a few more blows for him? Tried harder to force the transfer? Maybe Connor would still be alive. Sixty wouldn’t, but that was a price he was willing to pay.

He sighed. Even if Hank shot him, he still had to check on him. He owed that much to Connor, at least.

_Connor_. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness whenever he thought about him.

He had never felt the need to read up on human psychology before, content to ignore the gaping hole in his Thirium pump, but after the events that had transpired earlier that day he decided a quick look couldn’t make things worse.

The denial had mostly worn off at this point, and he had already yelled about how it wasn’t fair and smashed a good few things in the nearby junkyard right after Connor’s death, so he assumed he was past anger as well. A short time after he burnt himself out punching all the rusty metal within a fifty foot radius, he just lay there on the ground for hours, eventually coming up with a million _what if_ scenarios. He had even run a few simulations.

After that, he went home (so strange, to have somewhere to truly belong, as something more than a tool) to Hank, and took Connor’s life, shoving his grief to the back-burner.

But now that his lie had been uncovered, and his coating of denial and ignoring the problem had been chipped away, he assumed he would be in what was known as the depression stage. It seemed to fit.

He exited his apartment and called a taxi to Hank’s house, deciding to go through with it after all.

* * *

When he arrived, he knocked on the door. No answer. He didn’t want to ring the bell in case Hank was asleep; even though it was barely noon, he had learned that emotions could be exhausting. He peered into the kitchen window (fixed, thankfully), and was relieved not to see Hank passed out on the floor.

He went back to the front door and quietly picked the lock, letting himself in. Sumo lifted his head to look at him, but otherwise didn’t react. Sixty had found it strange that Sumo still liked him, even though he seemed to know he wasn’t Connor. Sixty still wasn’t quite sure how the dog had figured it out; him and Connor were, for all intents and purposes, identical, but dogs seemed to just have it all figured out. Maybe he smelled weird.

He walked carefully through the house, eventually stopping before the bedroom door. Slowly and quietly he opened it, noting the sleeping Lieutenant inside. Good, he was resting, not drinking.

He slipped out and closed the door silently behind him. He could leave now, he had checked up on the lieutenant and found that he was fine, but... he wanted to atone for his past mistakes, even if it was in such a small way.

The house was already clean, as Connor had found the tasks to be relaxing and Sixty had adopted his mannerisms, but he assumed Hank wasn’t going to have the energy or motivation to cook for himself. He didn’t know when he would be awake, but he decided to cook something simple that could be reheated.

A few minutes later, a plate of pasta was sitting on the table, along with another note. Sixty also took the liberty of confiscating the rest of Hank’s alcohol; if he was really desperate, he _could_ go to a bar, but Sixty wanted to help as much as he could. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too mad.

After one last quick pet for Sumo, he left.

* * *

When Hank startled awake yet again from another nightmare, it was to the smell of pasta. Beyond confused, he somehow managed to drag himself out of bed and to the kitchen. Was he hallucinating already?

He found a plate of food on the table, as well as a note innocently sitting there. Okay, good, not a hallucination, then. He hadn’t eaten since the donut that morning (it felt like years ago, not hours), but he wasn’t hungry. How could he be, after he had just found out his son was dead?

He picked up the note.

_Dear Lieutenant Anderson,_

_I’m sorry for breaking into your house. I was worried about you._

Hank scoffed, but strangely enough he found that he didn’t actually mind. In fact, it reminded him of—no, don’t think about that. Don’t think about _him_.

_I also wanted to apologize yet again. I know it won’t change anything, but I truly am sorry._

_I realized that I never actually provided you with any contact information on the last note. So, if you would like me to transfer to another precinct, you can call me at this number or visit me at this address:_

_+2 (313) 248 - 31760_

_123 Emandilav Street, Detroit, MI._

_Thanks again,_

_Sixty_

Hank looked at the note in his hand for a good few minutes after he was done reading it. _Did_ he want Sixty to transfer? Could he really spend the next few years before his retirement staring at the reminder that Connor was gone?

But... was that all he was? Just the reminder of a loss, and not his own person?

Their first meeting had gone... less than pleasant, to put it lightly. And then, the second time they met (with him actually knowing he was him, that is) he had pulled a gun on him. _Again_.

He frowned. Sixty had apologized multiple times, but Hank had never actually apologized for his actions as well.

Sumo came over and whined, sniffing at the hand that still held the note.

“What do you think, buddy?” Hank asked softly. “Should I visit him?”

Sumo whined again. Hank sighed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

* * *

When Sixty opened the door for whoever had just rang the bell, he was not expecting Hank. He was expecting literally anyone _but_ Hank, be it the mailman, a salesperson, a Girl Scout—hey, even Captain Fowler, Markus, or an _alien_, because any of those options were more probable than Hank ever setting foot within a fifty-foot radius of him.

When Sixty left his address on his last note, it was a sort of last minute spur of the moment decision. He mainly decided to leave it there so Hank could _avoid_ him at all costs, not show up on his doorstep!

“Uh,” Hank said helpfully. “Hey.”

“Hello,” was all Sixty could manage through the thoughts of _WHY IS HE HERE HE’S GOING TO KILL YOU RUN RUN_ RUN— that were racing through his head. “...Would you like to come in?” he forced out, stepping aside.

“Sure,” Hank responded, if a little tentatively. It didn’t do anything to put Sixty’s nerves at ease.

A few minutes later, they were both seated at the tiny kitchen table, Hank with a mug of coffee and Sixty one of warm Thirium. The silence was starting to stretch on, but Sixty didn’t want to be the one to break it.

“So,” Hank took a sip of coffee, then awkwardly cleared his throat. “You, uh... you come here often?”

“Yes,” Sixty replied, slightly baffled. “I live here.”

“Oh, uh, right, of course,” Hank muttered, flushing. Sixty was beyond confused—wasn’t Hank going to pull out his gun and shoot him? Why was he drawing this out?

His bewilderment must have shown on his face, because Hank set his mug on the table, sighed, and folded his hands. “Look, kid, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

His mouth fell open involuntarily in a surprised _o_ shape. Hank sighed again and absently scratched his beard.

“I’m sorry for pulling a gun on you.” _There, was that so hard? _ Hank thought derisively. He mentally stomped down the voice in his head, refocusing on the real world.

Sixty’s eyes were so wide they looked like they might pop out of his head. A wave of guilt seized Hank; had he really been that horrible to him? Well... now that he really thought about it, the only two times he’d interacted with Sixty had ended up with him at gunpoint. Yikes.

“Can we maybe, uh, start over...?” Hank asked hesitantly. Sixty seemed to snap back to reality at that, and to Hank’s surprise, a soft smile found its way to his face. It was all the encouragement Hank needed. “I’m Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Nice to meet you,” he finished, reaching out a hand to shake.

Sixty’s smile widened, becoming more genuine. He reached out his own hand, shaking Hank’s from across the table. “I’m Sixty. Nice to meet you, Lieutenant.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is probably one of the longest things I’ve ever written, so I hope you liked it :)
> 
> I wasn’t sure how to end it, but I think I did alright :P.


End file.
